


Saviors of the Broken, the Beaten, and the Damned

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: A cabdriver who is NOT Dopinder, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Caretaking, Deadpool Thought Boxes, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medicated Peter, Peter is high, Spideypool - Freeform, The Avengers don't appreciate Spider-Man, Wade has ethics, Wake-Up Sex, injured peter, white box - Freeform, yellow box - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter may not be an Avenger, but he sure takes a beating like one. And Wade’s definitely noticed. Written for this prompt: (http://writing-challenges-and-prompts.tumblr.com/post/149889283488/writing-prompt-dialogue). See end notes for full prompt.</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU. Inspired by the prompt, of course, but also, by this song: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDWgsQhbaqU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saviors of the Broken, the Beaten, and the Damned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyroperception](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroperception/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

 

Four thirty-four a.m.

 

Peter Parker limped gingerly out of the E.R.—in his civvies, for once, and hadn’t _that_ been a nightmare? Changing out of his spidey-suit and into the nearest pair of sweats and t-shirt laying on his bedroom floor—arms wrapped lightly, but protectively around his ribs.

 

The walk home would be at least as long as the walk to the hospital had been, and Peter was already breathing fast, light, and shallow, in deference to those broken ribs. He hung his head, floppy, almost-auburn hair slipping forward to cover his forehead and obscure his light-brown eyes.

 

He stood—slouched—like that for a few minutes, his shoulders seeming to slump a little more with each and every panted breath. Soon, the shakes he’d been fighting were obvious. Would’ve been to a blind man.

 

He tried to straighten up after a while, but didn’t get very far before he whimpered tersely, his skin shining with sweat, and gone jaundiced and pale in the light from the hospital sign. That fast/light breathing grew faster and harder. Then Peter huffed a soft, rueful laugh.

 

“Walk me home, Deadpool?” he asked softly, taking a few wincing steps to the right and out of the main entrance doorway. Behind him, the automatic doors slid silently shut, and. . . .

 

From my shadowy distance, I watched Peter hobble onward another few yards, then stop, and look directly at me, shadows be damned. I let myself melt slowly back, further into the comforting darkness.

 

But then Peter smiled, weary and pained—it was honestly more of a grimace than a smile, but it still did things to my stupid heart, still made Yellow sigh wistfully and White groan impatiently at us both—and nodded as if to say: _C’mon over, my friend_.

 

“You sure you wanna be seen with the likes of _me_ , hero?” But I was already moving out of the shadows, into the light cast by the hospital. Peter’s eyes and grimace-smile widened when he saw me, and he stood a little straighter, one wiry, leanly-muscled arm dropping away from his ribs. “Unlike me, you’ve got a good rep to maintain.”

 

“Meh,” Peter said, waving his free hand. As I drew closer to him, I catalogued his sutured-up bottom lip, his bruised, slightly swollen right cheek, and the already-purpling shiner: all hallmarks of tonight’s little adventure with the Avengers. “Haven’t you read the _Bugle_ , lately? According to J.J. Jameson, Spider-Man’s the worst menace to hit this city in . . . ever.”

 

“ _That_ asshole can suck a bag of dicks.” I stopped when I was just five feet away from Peter. He blinked up at me, reddened eyes amused and wry. “He wouldn’t know a real hero if one saved his worthless, muck-raking life.”

 

“Hmm. I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to agree, on that one, DP.” Peter winked—his bad left eye, as if he’d forgotten—winced, then started walking. After a moment, I caught up to him in three moderately long strides.

 

An eternal city block passed in silence that was more about Peter just trying to stay upright than an indictment of the company he’d courted. I sidled closer to him, till our arms were brushing. Halfway down the next block, I slipped my arm around his slim shoulders, my breath held.

 

Another few moments passed—also eternal—before Peter exhaled slowly, tiredly, and leaned carefully into me.

 

“Mmm,” he huffed, snuffling into my shoulder almost loopily. “You always smell good, DP. Like tacos.”

 

I smiled, squeezing him very gently closer to me. “Well, I had to kill time somehow, while you were getting stitched up and put back together, Spidey. There’s a _Taco Bueno!_ not eight blocks away.”

 

“Hmm . . . didja save me any?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

Peter chuckled and groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. My ribs are fucking _killing_ me.”

 

“So I gathered . . . cracked or broken?”

 

“Yes.” Peter snorted. “Depends on which rib you’re asking about. They’ve all got a story to tell.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah.” A soft sigh. “Not my best night, overall.”

 

“Way _I_ see it, Spider-butt, you saved the world. _Again_.”

 

“Meh.” Peter hissed as he stumbled, jarring his poor ribs. I paused to give him some recovery time, fighting the instinct—and Yellow’s _strong_ urging—to just scoop him up and _carry_ him home. “I just did some scut-work for the Avengers . . . as usual. _They_ were Beyonce. I was just Destiny’s Child.”

 

Suppressing a smile, I put my arm back around him again when he nodded his readiness to continue our walk. “Don’t gimme that, Spidey-Babe. _Despite_ the way they treat you, they fuckin’ _need_ you _and_ that sexy, spandex-clad ass fightin’ with ‘em to keep saving this shitty planet. How they haven’t made you an Avenger yet is beyond me.”

 

Peter mumbled something I couldn’t make out. I leaned closer. “Say again?”

 

“It’s not . . . it’s not like I’m doing this to win a prize or something, DP. I’m not fighting at their side to prove something to them or be _worthy_ in their eyes. I’m doing it because . . . this is _my_ city. My _world_. I live here and all my stuff is here, too. _Including_ the people I . . . care about.” I glanced down at Peter to find him looking up at me with those wide, pale-brown eyes. In the light from the streetlamps, they seemed golden. “I really _dig_ this world, man. It, like, grew on me at some point in the last twenty-two years. So if I can do something to protect it . . . to _save_ it . . . you can bet your sweet bippy I’m gonna do my best.”

 

I smiled and blushed, glad that he couldn’t make out the latter, at least. “Nice speech, Baby Boy. You practice that in the E.R. waiting room?”

 

“Nah, mostly just on the way out the door.” Peter snorted again and looked down at the sidewalk. “ _Fuck_.”

 

“What?” I clutched at him tighter, pulling him closer, still. “You okay?”

 

“No . . . not really. Ribs are _really_ screamin’, now.”

 

“Damn. Didn’t they give you any kinda painkillers in the E.R.?”

 

“Didn’t take ‘em. They actually work a little, hmm, _too well_ , with my spidey-central nervous system. Make me really . . . loopy and chatty—among, uh, other notable side effects—before I, um . . . pass out for half a day.”

 

“’S’at so?”

 

“Yep. The most so thing for miles in any direction, unfortunately.” Peter rubbed at his good eye. “I dunno why I even kept the script they gave me. I can’t trust myself when I’m on codeine, let alone fucking oxycontin.”

 

“Ah, yes . . . hillbilly heroin,” I mused, only to get a weak elbow in the side. I chuckled, suddenly giddy for some reason. I leaned down a little and, without thinking, kissed the top of Peter’s head. His hair smelled like sweat, coconut, and . . . burning. Fucking Avengers.

 

“C’mon,” I said suddenly, all business as I swung us around, south. Peter blinked up at me, startled.

 

“What’s up, DP? Shortcut?”

 

I snorted. “Hardly. We’re gonna stop at that 24-hours _Walgreens_ a couple blocks away. We’re gonna get your prescription filled, and _you’re_ gonna take the first dose of your hillbilly heroin while we wait for a taxi to your place.”

 

Peter frowned. “But—I have class in four hours. Less.”

 

“Not today, you don’t. You can afford to skip a day, I’m guessin’.”

 

“But—but I’ve _never_ missed a day of class!” Peter sounded frankly _horrified_.

 

“Then it’s like I said: you can afford to skip a day.”

 

Peter’s pretty, rosy mouth worked for a minute, then his eyes narrowed. “ _Really_ don’t wanna. Plus, I’ve gotta be at the Bugle at three. I have too much shit to do today to be high and snoring for twelve hours.”

 

“Too bad, then, because that’s _exactly_ what you’re _gonna_ be, Peter Parker. Even if I have to hog-tie you.”

 

Peter blinked again, seeming confused. And he kept staring at me so hard, I blushed again. “What?” I demanded. Peter’s head tilted as if he was giving me some serious consideration.

 

“Nothing, it’s just . . . you’ve never called me by my name, before. Even though I’m pretty sure you’ve known it since just after we met.” He smiled a little, his golden eyes in faint, grey circles. “It’s always _Spidey, Spides, Spider-Babe, Baby Boy,_ and _Booty-licious_.”

 

“Well. If the nicknames fit,” I mumbled gruffly, and Peter laughed, bright and delighted, leaning against me pretty trustingly. I wanted to smell his hair again . . . press my face into it and just _breathe_. “ _Peter’s_ a . . . a real nice name, though. I could get used to it. And you could, uh . . . you could call me _Wade_ , y’know? I’m Wade Wilson, by the way. You can call me _Wade_ or _Wilson_ —I mean, if you want to! If you’re more comfortable keepin’ it purely business, then—”

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter said as if he was tasting the word, and in the back of my mind, even _White_ moaned softly. And Yellow was having some sort of . . . weird, disembodied orgasm. No one had ever said my name quite like _Peter Parker_ just had. “ _Wade Wilson_. . . .”

 

“Middle name’s _Winston_ ,” I volunteered, like a shmuck, then promptly turned red. I was doing that a lot, lately.

 

“Classy,” Peter said, fine dark brows quirking up in amusement. “Mine is Benjamin.”

 

“B-B-B-Benny and the Jets!” came bursting out of my mouth, no doubt cementing just how cool and relevant I was, in Peter’s eyes.

 

But he merely laughed and put his arm around my waist, leaning into me more than ever. His body felt warm and firm and nice. . . .

 

“Uh,” I said, realizing that we’d stopped walking and I’d just been staring down into Peter’s pretty eyes for a while. Peter’s smile widened.

 

“C’mon, Wade,” he said, ducking his head and breaking whatever spell I’d been under. We started walking again, arms around each other like a pair of lovers. “Let’s get my hillbilly heroin and see if we can get a cab out to my place before it kicks in.”

 

#

 

We did not, unfortunately, get to Peter’s apartment before the Oxycontin kicked in.

 

 _Close_ , but that really only counts with horseshoes and pulse-grenades.

 

We were in the cab that came promptly to pick us up—the driver was kinda old and suspicious . . . at least till I paid him beforehand and tipped generously—and Peter was asleep in my arms. Or so I thought till he giggled . . . the most stoned giggle I’d ever heard. Even the driver, one Mr. Anthony Chen, per his medallion, glanced back at us warily. Not that there was much to see even with the light of the rising sun shining into the cab.

 

Nope, nothing to see at all . . . except for Peter Parker snuggling against me and practically purring like a kitten as he petted my arm.

 

“Mmm . . . I like your big muscles and broad shoulders,” he burbled low and breathlessly. I turned as red as my mask and avoided Anthony Chen’s next few glances back at us.

 

“Uh . . . thanks, Petey-pie. I do a lot of pilates and shit to _keep_ this body, y’know?”

 

Peter hummed. “Whatever you’re doin’, keep it up . . . it’s _workin’_ for ya.”

 

“Thanks?”

 

Still humming, Peter snuggled closer, his wrecked ribs apparently forgotten. Oxycontin was good shit. “When we first met, I was so _jealous_ of you. I mean . . . I would look at your body in all that red leather . . . the way you moved when you fought . . . all that grace and power and control, and I’d think: _Fuck . . ._ I _want that body_!” Another loopy giggle. “I don’t even remember when that turned into: _Fuck, I_ want _that body_!”

 

I instantly froze, and Yellow and White, who were lazily arguing about who even cared? went utterly silent, too.

 

“Uh . . . _what_ was that?” finally fell from my lips as I blinked down at Peter’s floppy, sweet-smelling hair. Then I was staring into his eyes as he grinned up at me, pupils fat and dilated, only the thinnest ring of gold left around them.

 

“Hey . . . if I said you had a _bangin’_ body, wouldja hold it against me?” he asked solemnly. Then he almost literally dissolved into hysterical giggles, burying his face in my shoulder for a few moments.

 

{Um. I think we broke him,} Yellow whispered, sounding faintly frightened.

 

[Don’t be ridiculous. Clearly he’s simply been . . . affected by the Oxycontin. We would do well to ignore anything he says or does under its influence.] White sniffed.

 

 _Right_ , I agreed. But it was easier said than done, when Peter’s warm hand landed on my knee, settling there for a few moments, before sliding up my thigh, squeezing lightly as it went. All the while, he was staring up into my carefully averted face with wide, hopeful eyes.

 

“Listen, Pete,” I began in a weird, high voice. It sounded like Wade-on-helium. “You’ve had a real long night and you’re on some, uh . . . some pretty powerful shit—”

 

“I would give _anything_ ,” Peter murmured in a raw, desperate voice I’d never heard before, as his hand made some pretty meaningful contact with the hard-on I’d been trying my best to ignore for the past several minutes. His loopy eyes were still wide and intent on my mask. “ _Absolutely anything_ to be inside you, Wade. Waaaaaaade . . . I _love_ the way your name feels in my mouth. I wanna feel even _more_ of you in my mouth . . . want you to fuck my mouth and throat with _this_ ,” he whispered a bit too loudly as he squeezed my dick with just enough spidey-strength implied to make me groan and lift my hips up to meet that tight, possessive grip.

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Peter said, licking his pretty lips, which were curved in what was simultaneously the most sweet and evil smile I’d ever seen. My brain temporarily went offline—taking Ywllow and White with it—and all I was was the necessary motion it took to drive me into Peter’s calculatedly strong grip. He was still squeezing slow and tight, still licking his lips. God, but _I_ wanted to be doing that. “ _Oh_ , yeah.”

 

“Hey—this ain’t no motel room, you two! Cut it out!”

 

Anthony Chen’s annoyed voice brought me down from the stratosphere, or wherever my psyche had disappeared to for a few minutes. Peter was still staring at me with that eerie-intense focus, nimble fingers scrabbling for the waistband of my pants.

 

“I’m gonna suck you, then fuck you,” he informed me gravely . . . then blinked and furrowed his brows when I took a deep, shaking breath and caught his hand.

 

“Pete,” I said, hoarse and raw, too, as I held his hand in both of mine. “Pete, buddy, you are . . . fuckin’ _incandescent-hot_. And _I’d_ give absolutely anything to have this— _you_ —be real. But another thing you are is _high as a fuckin’ kite_ , Baby Boy—”

 

“’M _not_ ,” Peter insisted, tugging on his hand. He’d clearly forgotten all about his spidey-strength.

 

“You _are_ , Peter. And as appealing as you are—all the time, but especially _now_ , having just had a handful of my junk—I couldn’t . . . I _wouldn’t_ take advantage of you while you’re too . . . high to make an informed decision.” I shrugged, looking away from his disappointed, wounded eyes as I let go of his hand. Which, to _my_ disappointment, didn’t go back to my waistband or dick.

 

“But—but—” he wibbled, actually sniffling and wiping at his eyes. “I really _want_ you, Wade, I—ohhhhh,” Peter sighed heavily, hanging his head. “You think I only want you because of the hillbilly heroin.”

 

“ _What_?” Anthony Chen demanded, sounding _very_ unhappy.

 

“Uh, maybe we should continue this chat later, Pete, huh?”

 

But Peter was shaking his head. “Please believe it’s not the drugs talking, Wade. That maybe the hillbilly heroin gave me some courage and stuff, but it hasn’t affected the way I _feel_ about things. The way I feel about _you_.”

 

Against my better judgement, I found myself looking at Peter again. He was staring down at his hands where they now fidgeted constantly in his lap. They were callused and work-roughened, with narrow palms and long, blunt-tipped fingers. They seemed almost outsized for his compact frame.

 

“Peter,” I said softly, covering his restless hands with one of my own, till they stilled. Peter sniffed again.

 

“I dunno why I thought that tonight was . . . _different_ , somehow. That this was, finally, _the moment_ , y’know.” A waterlogged giggle that was more miserable than anything I’d ever heard. Bereft and hopeless. “I guess it’s just . . . I’ve been waiting _so long_ for the time to be right to tell you how I feel, that maybe I jumped the gun. All these months of hiding how I feel and trying to just let whatever was gonna happen _happen_ , and I mess it all up because some fuckin’ drug made me a Chatty Cathy!”

 

“Hey, is that asshole on _drugs_?” Anthony Chen demanded dyspeptically. Yellow growled in my mind and White murmured: [Oh, dear. Poor word-choice.] Before I could think about it, I had my favorite dagger, Matilda, out and at Anthony Chen’s throat. He jammed on the brakes hard enough that Peter hit the back of the front seat before crumpling into a moaning, whimpering heap on the floor of the cab.

 

“I suggest that from here on out, you keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel, like the man said. _Capiche_ , Mr. Chen?”

 

“C-capiche!” Anthony Chen hurried to agree, then jammed on the gas, clearly eager to see the last of me and Peter.

 

I disappeared Matilda and helped Peter—who’d been thrown backwards, this time, before sliding to the floor again—pick himself up. He was paler than ever and breathing fast again. I winced.

 

“How’re the ribs?” I asked solicitously. His eyes were scrinched shut, his teeth bared in a silent, indrawn hiss.

 

“Oh, peachy,” he whispered shortly, settling back in the seat. “I’m aces.”

 

Three minutes later, during which I did nothing but stare with mounting concern at Peter, who didn’t open his eyes once, Anthony Chen jammed on the brakes again, this time throwing us both against the front seat. This time, however, I caught Peter before he could fall to the floor. He groaned and went limp in my arms.

 

“We’re here,” our cabdriver said, which was obviously slang for: _Get the fuck outta my cab, junkies_.

 

“C’mon, baby,” I murmured, opening the door and easing myself, then Peter out of the cab. He went trustingly, but with a lot of stifled whimpers and moans. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re doin’ _so_ _good_ for me.”

 

Peter snorted. “All I ever wanted to hear. Context is a little off, though.”

 

I focused on helping Peter up the front steps of his building—Anthony Chen had sped off as soon as Peter’s foot left the cab, not even waiting for me to close the door—instead of how much my face was burning. Like, even more than usual, with my shit-show skin.

 

Unlike my place, Peter’s was a walk-up. Which, you know, is awesome at the best of times. But when one has broken ribs? It’s a fun-fest like you wouldn’t _believe_!

 

But we made it up to the fourth floor without too much fussin’ and fightin’. Peter fumbled his keys out of his pocket and handed them to me. He was hanging limply off my arm, and I pulled him close, kissing the top of his head again. “Almost there, Baby Boy.”

 

Peter grumbled something under his breath, leaning into me once more. Then, we were in his small, Spartan apartment, with it’s third-hand everything, moldering, wall-to-wall carpet, and painted-shut windows. Even in the kind light of dawn, this apartment was a shithole.

 

How he survived it in the summer I just didn’t know.

 

I shut the door behind us, making sure to engage the deadbolt, as well. Then I lead Peter past his couch—sagging and uninviting-looking—to his futon which, from what I could tell, was probably the first futon to ever be invented, it was so old and rickety.

 

I sat us both down on the edge of the damn thing and it creaked so loudly I started to stand again. But Peter stopped me with a hand and some more of that calculated spidey-strength.

 

“Stay,” he said, shooting me a tired smile.

 

“Of course. For as long as you want,” I promised. That tired smile turned crooked but painfully earnest.

 

“Don’t make promises you aren’t prepared to keep,” was Peter’s reply. Then he looked down at his feet. Kicked off his run-down sneakers and socks, then yawned. Fighting another blush, this time when I stood up, he didn’t try to stop me. And he put up no resistance when I swung his long, lean legs up onto the futon.

 

I stared down at him, arms akimbo like Superman, while he wriggled about carefully in the messy sheets, one hand on his sternum, the other tucked under his pillows—there were three of them, really _nice_ ones . . . Spidey’s Achilles heel, perhaps?—until he found a position he liked and blinked up at me with that same tired smile.

 

“You’re not gonna stand there _all day_ , till I wake up, are you?”

 

“Um.” I shrugged. That’d been _exactly_ what I’d been planning to do, actually. Maybe Peter could tell despite the mask, because he chuckled and held out his hand.

 

“C’mon. In ya go, Mr. Pool. No one can resist the awesome cuddling-powers of the Amazing Spider-Man.”

 

“’S’at so? Good info to have, then,” I said breathlessly, as I reluctantly took his hand and let him pull me down to the futon, despite my better judgment—White, basically—and to the demon on my shoulder’s cheering—Yellow, all day, every day. When I sat, my hands braced carefully on the edge of the futon, it pretty much shrieked and the both of us laughed. Then Peter was sitting up, foregoing his found comfort to wrap his arms around my waist and lay his head on my shoulder-blade with a contented sigh. And so help me . . . I leaned back into his embrace. And it was. . . .

 

It was _really good_.

 

“This,” Peter finally said, and even his voice was content. “This, right here, is _nice_.”

 

{Yes, it is,} Yellow purred.

 

[A little _too_ nice,] White warned as Peter slowly, efficiently began unbuckling my utility belt and the harness that strapped Bea and Arthur to my back. The belt he tossed at his saggy couch, and the harness with Bea and Arthur he laid on the floor next to the right side of the bed, where I sat. Then Peter carefully removed my semi-automatic pistols and daggers—the ones he could see, anyway—and placed them on his night table. They looked almost prosaic next to the clock-radio and an opened pack of Breathe-Rite strips.

 

Then Peter was nuzzling the back of my neck—even through the leather I could feel the heat of his breath—and urging me to lie down with him.

 

“I really shouldn’t,” I said quietly, even as I kicked my boots off and swung my legs up onto the bed. Peter chuckled sleepily, nudging me to lay on my right side so he could spoon up behind me. And I—it was like I suddenly had no agency of my own. Because _this—right here_ —was all I’d been wanting for . . . a long time. Just . . . Peter’s body pressed against my back, one arm and leg slung possessively over me, as if to keep me from leaving—as if I _would_ —and him nuzzling the back of my neck.

 

It was perfect.

 

[No, it’s not,] White reminded me, and I tensed up. [Right now, Peter Parker is high on more than life and you’re . . . you’re being an idiot if you think this is what he’ll want when he wakes up later.]

 

{I really wish you had teeth, man, so I could kick you in ‘em,} Yellow seethed. {Oxycontin is strong stuff, but it can’t make you want something you didn’t want in the first place. It’s like alcohol. It lowers inhibitions, but it doesn’t create feelings and desires that aren’t already there. A drunk man speaks a sober man’s mind, in case you hadn’t heard . . . aaaand, mic-drop, bitch!}

 

I smiled a little despite the remaining tension. Peter’s body pressed closer to mine and he hummed.

 

“Why so tense, baby?” he asked, obviously more than half-asleep. Still, I blushed at that slightly slurred _baby_.

 

“Just, uh . . . the Boxes wishing us a good morning in the way that only they can,” I said ruefully. Peter snorted softly, the rush of cooler air making me shiver.

 

“Oh . . . ‘kay. G’mornin’, to you, too, Boxes,” Peter mumbled, his fingers brushing up and down my abs in a way that made me anything but sleepy. “Be quiet and let Wade sleep for a while. He needs it.”

 

Struck silent with surprise, the Boxes . . . glanced at each other? Fucked if _I_ know how to describe the odd sensation of them acknowledging shared shock in a way that didn’t—not exactly—include me.

 

Then they retreated a bit, not quite to the back of my mind, but hovered at a slight distance. Enough for me to realize that yeah . . . I was kind of tired. Which I supposed made sense. I’d been following Peter around for weeks—months, really—or patrolling with him. Sometimes even fighting baddies with him and the Avengers, if the sitch was dire enough.

 

But _sleep_ hadn’t been very high on my list of priorities for some time.

 

Now, I yawned until my jaw cracked and Peter chuckled again.

 

“God, I _still_ wanna suck you and fuck you, Wade Winston Wilson. _So_ much.”

 

I cleared my throat, temporizing. Then I opened my mouth to reply, curious about what would come out.

 

“We’ll see how you feel when the Oxycontin wears off.” There. That was nice and diplomatic and ethical. Right?

 

“Well, I’ll feel like _shit_ , probably. Broken ribs, and all. But I’ll definitely still wanna get all up in _this_ ,” Peter assured me, pushing the beginnings of a very promising hard-on against my ass. “Oh, my _God_ , your _ass_ is, like, so perfect, Wade!” A bark of surprised laughter shot out of me, even as Peter’s Roman hand and Russian fingers drifted past my abs, down to cup my revived erection. “Like, it’s muscular and everything, but round, too. It’s . . . seriously the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen or felt. I can’t even wrap my mind around its sheer perfection!”

 

Still laughing, I covered Peter’s hand with my own, but lightly. Not enough to discourage his squeezing and stroking. “My ass is _a’ight_. But _yours_ , Baby Boy? Been fantasizing about it since the moment I first saw it. Wanna bury my face in it and eat you out till you _scream_.”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter breathed, and he wasn’t just pressed against me, but _rocking_ against me, thrusting slow and hesitantly against my ass. “Screw _spooning_ , baby. Wanna _fork_?”

 

Another surprised laugh burst from my throat and Peter held me tighter, laughing, too. “Sure. All day, every day. When your ribs have healed and you’re not high.”

 

“But _Waaaaaade_. . . .”

 

“I’m willing to accept that you may have . . . _desires_ that you wanna explore with me—”

 

“That’s putting it mildly.”

 

“And that you’re maybe kinda . . . I dunno. Fond of me?” I couldn’t find another word for what I thought Peter might be feeling. One that was less . . . charged with meaning.

 

Suddenly Peter stopped stroking me off and rolled me over without shifting his leg. His eyes seemed to flare rose-gold in dawn’s light, and they were solemn and slightly frustrated.

 

“I’m more than _fond_ of you, Wade Wilson,” he said in a somewhat strangled-sounding voice, reaching up to cup my face in his hand. His thumb brushed across my lips, gentle and shiver-causing even through the mask.

 

“Yeah?” I asked, cringing at the naked hope and eagerness in my own voice.

 

“Yeah.” Peter leaned in till his nose was resting next to mine and our foreheads were together. “I don’t just wanna fuck you. I can get that from anyone. I want . . . I wanna take you out on dates and walks through the park. I wanna Netflix and chill with you. I wanna make out with you in public till people around us get uncomfortable and annoyed. I wanna take you home to meet my Aunt May and for you to get to know my friends. For them to get to know _you_ , and become _your_ friends, too. _Fuck_ , Wade . . . I want—”

 

I didn’t get to hear the rest of what he wanted, because I was kissing him.

 

Well. I was pressing my mask-covered lips to _his_ lips hard, and moaning.

 

Peter pulled away after a few seconds and I made a sound of such dismay that it surprised even me. Then Peter was shushing me and stealing a sweet, chaste kiss.

 

“No, baby . . . no,” he murmured tenderly on my covered lips. Then he was leaning away just enough to grip and roll up the edges of the mask, baring my throat and the bottom third of my face. I licked my lips and held my breath as he settled the rolled up leather on my nose and looked at the revealed ruin the mask had hid. It was the first time he’d seen my scarred visage in daylight. And there was no taco or burrito to obscure the flat-out _hideousness_ of it.

 

I expected him to make a face and pull away. I _expected_ him to gasp and stammer out an excuse for why this . . . _this_ couldn’t continue. I expected. . . .

 

Pain. That seemed to be all life was prepared to give me, since . . . a long time ago. So that’s all I _ever_ expected, anymore.

 

But Peter merely looked at me, his gentle, callused thumb brushing my awful skin. His dilated pupils didn’t contract, though his eyelashes fluttered. And he just looked his fill, then met my eyes and smiled.

 

“Sorry,” I mumbled, because it was all I could think to say.

 

“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for, sweetheart,” Peter said. Then with a desperate moan, he launched himself at my face, kissing me hard and as desperate as that moan had been. But his hand on my face was still so gentle and reverent.

 

I wrapped my arms around him carefully, pulling him closer as quickly as I dared, with his busted ribs, and let him kiss my shock and objections away. He explored my mouth peremptorily, teasing and forceful at turns, nudging me over so that I was on my back and he was leaning over me. His tongue was wet and agile and shameless. Dominant and demanding.

 

“God, I wanna come _so bad_ ,” he panted when we finally came up for air. Dawn was a thing of the past, at that point. It was officially _morning_. “Wanna come _in_ you and _on_ you and _with_ you.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , Peter. . . .”

 

“But, yeah, _especially_ wanna come _in_ you. Then turn you onto your stomach and lap up my come as it trickles out of you.” Peter sighed wistfully and I . . . was fighting not to blow my load in my pants like I was fifteen. “We’re gonna have _so much fun_ when I’m better, Wade. That I promise you. Patrolling together, late-night dates at _Taco Bueno!_ , and making out on rooftops . . . then coming home and fucking till I forget I have responsibilities other than keeping my sexy, fine-ass boyfriend fucked-out and happy.”

 

It _did_ sound nice. Really, _really_ nice.

 

“You don’t have to . . . to promise me stuff just to get in my pants, Pete.” I held his gaze so he’d know what I meant, and know that I meant it.

 

But Peter just smiled, the skin around _his_ eyes crinkling as he darted in to lick my lips. “I know I don’t.”

 

Then we were kissing again, writhing against each other, Peter settling on top of me gingerly, his body slotted perfectly between my legs. He began grinding against me slow and sweet. Easy . . . like Sunday morning.

 

Instinct made me hold him tighter and closer, pull him down on me fully. He gasped and hissed because of his ribs, and I stuttered out apologies as he levered himself up in a shaky, one-armed push-up.

 

Then our eyes met, his amused and wry, mine probably stricken.

 

Next thing I knew, we were both laughing—snickering as he flopped back over on the bed next to me and I rolled against his side, burying my face in his shoulder.

 

“My dick, like, totally _hates_ my ribs, right now,” Peter wheezed giddily.

 

“ _My dick_ hates your ribs, right now, too,” I agreed, giggling helplessly.

 

And we laid there, laughing and cuddling, cuddling and laughing . . . till the laughter wound down and was just cuddling and soft, almost sated sighs.

 

“You know, I was supposed to go to the Avengers’ Tower ‘round about now-ish to be debriefed about last night’s . . . kerfuffle,” Peter yawned, when the silence between us had changed from charged to sleepy, once more. “Fury asked and I said I’d be there. Even though my statement isn’t necessary and I’m not actually an Avenger. . . .”

 

“ _Did_ he ask? Or _command_?” Peter shifted a bit against me, the arm around me tightening. I sighed. “You need to make them respect you, Baby Boy. They can’t succeed _without_ you.”

  
Peter huffed once more. “They seem _very_ certain that they can.”

 

“Then _remind_ _them_ that they _can’t_!” I tried to tone down the urgency in my voice. In my heart. I wrapped my own arm around Peter’s waist, as possessive and tight as I dared. “You don’t need to die to prove you’re in their league, Petey. And we . . . we never have to lose . . . _what we have_. Ever.” 

  
Peter didn’t respond to that for so long, I thought he’d fallen asleep. Then he sighed. It had that contented, sated sound that I suspected I’d _never_ grow tired of. “Ever?”

 

“ _Ever_ ,” I promised. And he shifted a little, kissing my forehead and the bridge of my nose just above where the mask was bunched up.

 

“Okay,” Peter said, yawning again, this one a jaw-cracker that could’ve given mine a run for its money. “Okay.”

 

And, as if they had been waiting for a cue, my eyes sank shut on the morning and my body relaxed. In minutes, I was asleep. _Deeply_ asleep, like I hadn’t bothered to do for almost a year.

 

#

 

When I woke up, sunset was setting the sky ablaze, rendering Peter’s shitty apartment orange and gold, and my pants were being tugged—not gently—down my legs.

 

“Huh? Huzzat?” I mumbled, barely awake, squinting against that violent end-of-day light. I was, as always, instantly aware of where I was and what had gone on prior to being unconscious. But I was nonetheless bleary and still pretty sleepy. “Petey?”

 

“Oxycontin’s out of my system, Wade. Ribs’re . . . better. Now—” a gentle, tender kiss was pressed to my left inner thigh. “Just lay back and relax.”

 

“But—what?”

 

Then I was gasping my way up through several layers of serious lassitude as my dick was submerged in hot, wet warmth that slid up and down my shaft _many_ times before a very enthusiastic tongue laved the tip, and played with the slit and foreskin.

 

“Oh— _oh_ —!”

 

“Mmm,” Peter hummed smugly, his hand soothing the jumping muscles in my right thigh. Then he eased off of my dick with a slurp and a pop. The cool air of the room hit my wet dick and made me shiver. Then Halloween-orange eyes were suddenly directly above my own, searching and fond.

 

“I still want you, Wade. Wanna make good on every. Nasty. Promise I made you this morning,” he said, stealing a _very_ dirty kiss, his fingers sliding from my inner thigh, up to my balls, and back to my perineum where they tugged lightly. I gasped and bucked up against him. “That is . . . if you’re up for it?”

 

I grunted. I’d never been at my best when I first woke up. “Less talk. More making good on nasty promises, Parker.”

 

Then Peter was chuckling throatily as he ducked back down to crotch-level and licked my dick like it was his favorite flavor of lollipop. I put my hand on his head—clenched my fingers in his thick, soft hair—as he all but swallowed me down. I hit the back of his throat like a heat-seeking missile and instinctively _went for it_ . . . thrust hard and fast into his willing mouth and throat, encountering a very surprising and heartening lack of gag-reflex.

 

Peter’s hands were bruise-tight on my thighs, his moaning constant. It wasn’t long before my body went still, strung tight as it maintained an arch that should’ve been painful and _was_ —but I _really_ didn’t care—then the world was orange Halloween-light and pleasure so sharp and sweet, it was almost _agony_ . . . then soft, safe, soothing darkness that held me in its arms as I rode out the last shudders of an orgasm like a fucking freight train.

 

By the time I caught my breath and opened my eyes again, the room was mostly dark and Peter was clinging to my side, lazily thrusting a fairly _girthy_ hard-on against my thigh. His face was tucked into my neck and his breath was a humid, urgent stutter on my pulse.

 

“Oh, God, _Wade_ . . . sweetie . . . that was . . . _fuck_ ,” he gasped out in a hoarse, absolutely _wrecked_ voice, and I grinned up at the dimly-lit ceiling. "So _hot_!"

 

“Gosh, but you’re _fun_ , Pete,” I exhaled when I could find the words, and Peter burst out laughing as he rolled on top of me and kissed me hello. And hello. And hello.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “You need to make them respect you. They can’t succeed without you.” 
> 
> “They seem very certain that they can.” 
> 
> “Remind them that they can’t. You don’t need to die, and we never have to lose what we have. Ever.” 
> 
> “Ever.”


End file.
